


Fallen Angels With Clockwork Wings

by PyroKlepto



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Steampunk, Cain/Colette - Freeform, F/M, Fallen Angel, Steampunk, fallen angel AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-24
Updated: 2016-01-13
Packaged: 2018-05-03 04:43:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5277125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PyroKlepto/pseuds/PyroKlepto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, angels commit a crime in the eyes of the Creator. Sometimes, these crimes are accidents that result in terrible consequences. Other times, they are done purposefully and in rebellion. But no matter the reasons, the outcome is always the same. An angel, streaking to earth in a glow of fading glory...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Cain

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Grigiocuore](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grigiocuore/gifts).



> Cain is a fallen angel, and Colette is a clockmaker - an inventor in her spare time. Their paths cross, and an unlikely bond is formed between the two of them. 
> 
> A few notes: part of the inspiration from this story, as well as some phrases, were borrowed from my friend Grigiocuore. For example, the paragraph describing Cain's eyes as 'burning jewels' - a few phrases in that paragraph were coined by Grigio. I mention that, because the imagery is beautiful and I cannot and will not take the credit for it when it isn't mine to take. 
> 
> This is based off an Alternate Universe she and I were discussing; I had the idea for Cain to be a fallen angel, and the steampunk element was all her idea. 
> 
> Also, one last thing: I am a Christian. I am also aware of how theologically inaccurate this story is, and that it may be very non-canon to Supernatural. I'm not writing it to be accurate to anything - I am writing it because I think it has potential to be a beautiful story. Please do leave comments and suggestions; I welcome them with open arms! Just take into consideration that I'm aware of the inaccuracies.
> 
> That said, read on and enjoy! Leave feedback if you like; just be kind!
> 
> ~~~
> 
> Also:  
> God has multiple names, and if anyone was wondering, these are the meanings of the ones used in this chapter:
> 
> ~ _Adonai_ \- Father  
>  ~ _Elohim_ \- God  
>  ~ _El-Shaddai_ \- Lord God Almighty

Anyone who saw the blaze of light far up in the blue velvet of the night sky assumed that a comet had fallen, and gave it not another thought. Shooting stars and debris from the sky were common here, after all.

If anyone had decided to go searching for a fallen rock from the void of space, they would have been disappointed. For this was no comet.

Sometimes, angels commit a crime in the eyes of the Creator. Sometimes, these crimes are accidents that result in terrible consequences. Other times, they are done purposefully and in rebellion. But no matter the reasons, the outcome is always the same.

An angel, streaking to earth in a glow of fading glory - so much of what makes it a celestial being stripped away the closer it gets to the small blue planet - to be exiled completely from Heaven, their Home, until they have found redemption. 

Many never do find it.

And so this angel fell, his magnificent wings growing ragged around the edges, his luminous silver feathers becoming black as soot. His impact to earth leaves a crater, just as a comet would have, but he is nothing like a comet - save for the fact that both he and comets are debris from Heaven.

The moment his body hits the cold earth, his skin begins to turn human and tearable around the edges. But he didn’t look entirely human - his eyes were like burning jewels, and he still beamed from within, a fading light that glowed like his blood was made of liquid gold. 

He curls up inside the crater, his wings splayed out behind him. He tucks his knees to his chest and whispers a faint prayer - but instead of his own tongue, this is garbled pieces of many different languages; none of them the divine one he once spoke. He tries to keep just a shred of the light trapped inside of him, but his penance called for it to be extinguished completely and it is, leaving him shivering in the dark, wind ruffling his feathers. 

His name is Cain. Or, it is now. He had a different name, in Heaven; a name like a breath of starlight, a name like poetry. But he can’t keep that name - not now. He has been stripped of his grace and so too his angelic title. 

He, as a fallen angel, will be called by a fallen name until he finds redemption - if he finds it.

~*~*~*~

Cain stood up on shaking legs, stumbling his way out of the crater his fall had created. The moon was hanging bright in the sky, but beyond that, there was no light to be seen. Trees surrounded him on all sides; a few branches that had snapped when he crashed through them lie on the ground.

And a being who once was a mighty angel who stood among the hosts of the Creator suddenly felt very small.

“ _El-Shaddai_ …” Cain breathed, and even something as quiet as his whisper seemed to echo in the air. He heard no response, and he tried again, his entire body trembling. “ _El-Shaddai_?" A pause as he listened in vain. " _Elohim_...?”

There was silence; so strange, for a being who had spent its entire existence hearing the words and songs of the Creator or His other angels. And it was then that Cain knew he had been cut off entirely from his Home.

Cain turned in a slow circle, taking in his surroundings. His wingtips dragged along the ground, but he couldn’t find the energy to lift them. 

There had to be something of familiarity here. Anything at all; something to tell him that not all was entirely lost. A glimmer of light in the night, a sound… but he saw and heard nothing but the strange sounds of a world he himself had not visited in aeons.

So he started to walk. He had nowhere to go but he couldn’t stay in this forest forever. He needed to decide on a course of action… 

With time, he realised that the unfamiliar sensation he felt was ‘cold’. He wore what appeared to be leather trousers, but no clothing on his torso. He could feel small raised bumps on his skin as he shivered, and wondered if this was how mortal humans felt every day. 

For someone who had grown accustomed to the warmth of Heaven, this was not a comfortable feeling. He also felt as though there was a knot within his stomach, and that his heart was going to burst. It was some sort of emotion, but he couldn’t place it. He didn’t like it.

He stumbled through the forest, uncertain of his steps; tripping over roots or rocks, and falling more than once, until his hands were dirty and bleeding (blood… something else he has never seen; at least not from his own body). His wings scraped and knocked against the trees. He tried to fold them, but something was wrong - it hurt. That was the only word he could think of. Pain was something he knew existed, here on Earth, but… it didn’t exist in Heaven, and he was feeling it for the first time, he was certain of it. 

So he left his wings unfolded, trailing them through the dirt and letting them collide with trees, searching for some semblance of warmth.

When he broke free from the forest, he found himself standing in a field. Far off in the distance, tiny pinpoints of orange light shone - houses where humans lived, perhaps. But it wasn’t a comfort, because he couldn’t find refuge there.

He still had his wings - what if humans could see them? He knew enough about humans to know that seeing a winged man walking in their midst would cause no small amount of stress and fear.

He supposed if he could find some sort of garment to wear, that he could try to bind his wings to his frame. But they were still long, if not slightly ragged, and he wasn’t sure he could simply bind them to his back and hope no one would notice. 

The only real option he had was to remove them entirely. But that made his heart shudder in his chest because they were his only ties to Home, now. If he removed them, he truly would lose all that made him who he was - or who he had once been. 

And it would hurt. If he could feel ‘pain’ now, then the act of cutting his own wings from his back would surely cause a considerable amount of pain.

Cain tipped his head back, staring at the sky for several long moments. A few stars twinkled far above, out of reach for the first time. Then a thought occurred to him - what if he could still fly? What if that would eventually lead to a way Home?

He gazed upward for a few moments longer, then carefully outstretched his wings with a twinge of pain. He stood silently, keeping his wings spread, letting them grow accustomed to the environment as the breeze whispered through them.

Then he ran a few unsteady steps forward and beat his feathered appendages, attempting to take flight. He rose a few yards into the air before a pain like fire coursed throughout his wings. Cain lost control and crashed to the ground, landing on his stomach. 

He started to shake again, scrabbling to his feet, breathing hard. He tried once again to fly, then again. Each time he wouldn’t get far before his joints screamed and his wings burned, and he plunged to the ground again.

After the third time, he let himself collapse facedown, every inch of him ablaze with pain. He lie there for only a moment before dragging himself to his hands and knees, wings drooping and fists clutching at grass and earth. Cain drew in a shuddering breath, making a sound between a gasp and a broken sob. 

He sat back in a kneeling position, eyes shut tight. His breaths came in trembling, unsteady huffs. Every sound in the night - the call of a bird, the cry of a coyote far in the distance, the hiss of the wind in the grass - sent another tremor through him. 

Vulnerable. That was the word. He couldn’t fly. He had no way of speaking to the Creator or his brethren. He knew nothing of this world he had been banished to. 

_Cast away. Exiled. Vulnerable. Small. Insignificant._

Words echoed through his head unbidden, and Cain hunched his shoulders, letting out another choked sound. “ _Adonai_ …” he whispered. It was a faint, tremulous plea that escaped his lips; one word, one of the Creator’s names. He knelt there, desperately hoping for a response - a sign - anything, anything at all.

He received none, and somehow he had known he wouldn’t. He had done wrong. These were the consequences he now faced. He would not hear from his Father; not for a long time.

So Cain - alone for the first time in his existence - bowed his head, and wept.


	2. Colette

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Colette Mullen - such a strange girl - awakes one night after a dream, and finds that something almost as strange and wonderful as her imagination has come into the world.

Since the beginning of time, ‘different’ has been shunned. If you did not fit into one of the varied boxes society created, you were seen as Other, and avoided at best - at worst, you were persecuted. It has been that way for centuries. 

Colette Mullen was no stranger to this. 

In her town, it was already strange for anyone but men to have a career, much less one as a clockmaker. And yet, here she was, a lovely young woman with an occupation. On top of that, she… _made things_.

In other words, she was an inventor, and quite a skilled one at that. She also had a passion for flora and fauna of all sorts. Some of the more superstitious townsfolk were certain she was a witch. 

Colette knew all of this, and continued on with life the way she always had. She never caused unneeded conflict, and treated everyone - even the cruel ones - with kindness. But she refused to let them keep her from doing the things she loved.

~*~*~*~

Colette sat straight up in bed, rubbing the sleep from her eyes with her hands. She had been working on an invention for the last two weeks, and the dream she awakened from now just might have given her the ideas she needed to complete it.

The night was cold, so she slipped her dress - the rust-orange one with the oil stains on the hem and the frayed sleeves, the one she often worked in - on over her nightgown and made her way out of the bedroom. 

The fireplace still crackled, causing the room to glow, broken only by flickering shadows as the flames danced. Colette took a lantern, lighting it and making her way downstairs to the basement. Or, rather, her workspace. 

Several tables were present, with projects in various states of completion scattered across them. A few shelves housed her tools and supplies, and there were boxes of spare parts or bits and pieces with no real purpose stacked in the corners. 

Reaching up, she switched on the solitary light hanging from the ceiling. Setting the lantern down on the table, she rolled her sleeves up, slipped on her leather working gloves, and got down to business. The room smelled like sawdust, metal, and faint traces of smoke - the scent of home, to Colette.

Singing quietly, she continued to work on her latest project. It really didn’t serve a logical purpose, but she found it so delicate and beautiful - a more-or-less life-sized wolf, made entirely of cogs, and gears, and other mechanics one used for clocks.

It would even run like a clock; she hoped it would end up with enough functionality to move smoothly around the room. Wouldn’t the children of the village who sometimes visited be thrilled?

The idea made her smile, and her singing became just a little louder as she worked. It wasn’t as though she would wake anyone up, after all.

Before too long, one of the clocks in her workroom chimed - it was now two hours past midnight. She made a humming sound, tilting her head and looking at her progress so far. She really should get some sleep… 

Reluctantly, Colette gently placed her tools down and draped a thin blanket over her clockwork wolf so that no dust would settle on it while she slept. Then she made her way back up the steps, pausing in front of the fireplace and rubbing her arms. She simply didn’t feel all that tired.

She paused, thinking, and then made her way to the front door. If the sky was clear, perhaps she could watch the stars for a short time before returning to bed.

There were no clouds and Colette gave a content sigh, leaning against the railing on her small porch, watching the sky. She could pinpoint each constellation easily and mentally went through the legends behind them. 

She had often dreamed of being an astronomer; to be able to spend her entire life learning about the stars, and studying them, and helping further science, had been the focus of many a daydream as a child.

But around here, women still couldn’t be scientists. They already thought her strange and Other simply for inventing things - an activity they clearly still applied only to men. 

So she stargazed from her porch, and read the books she could find, and continued to create things because she would not allow them to make her back down from what gave her joy and peace. She might not be able to go into a proper profession without backlash, but she could keep her passions and her interests and continue engaging in them.

The tiny gleaming pinpoints began to blur together after about fifteen minutes of watching and thinking and she took that - along with the fact she was shivering from the cold - as a sign that she needed to go to bed.

But just as she turned to enter the house, a flicker of movement - a shadow in the night - caught her attention and she paused.

Someone or something stood atop a hill in the distance. It looked human; almost like a man. It turned in a slow circle, then began to wander along the top of the hill, stumbling every so often, as though weak and uncertain of where to go. And were those… _wings_?

Colette knew she should disappear into her house and lock the door - after all, that was what her father would have told her to do. Yet she couldn’t bring herself to.

Whoever or whatever this was, it was new, and strange, and her curiosity had gotten the better of her. Her heart fluttered, because even she wasn’t without a level of nervousness and fear. But she ignored it and carefully went down the steps of her porch and made her way across the grass, toward the hill. 

She hesitated at the foot of it, looking up. Whoever it was - for it was definitely human in all features but the wings - hadn’t noticed her, and had stopped moving, standing motionlessly with his back to her. He wore leather trousers but no shirt or coat. The wings drooped behind him, dragging along the ground, feathers dislodging from them and drifting slowly down the hill, carried by the cold wind.

Colette almost backed away; almost returned home. But a small voice whispered that she had gotten this far - why turn back now? 

So she crept up the hill, not sure why she continued to move so silently. Soon, she was close enough to touch the wings - long, soot-black, ragged and yet still beautiful. But before she could, the feathers ruffled and the wings shifted position. Just slightly, but it was enough to startle her and elicit a gasp.

Then the human - was he human? - turned sharply, seeming to almost lose his balance. One of his wingtips struck Colette across the face; it stung, but hadn’t been enough to cause damage. Colette stumbled backward, nearly falling down, and stared, wide-eyed in both wonder and astonishment.

The figure was that of a man; tall, long-limbed, with thick dark hair that held a few silver streaks to it. His eyes - so very blue, even in the faint moonlight - shone, slightly wet with what she was certain were tears. 

The two of them stood silently on the hill, wind whispering between them as they did nothing but gaze at one another. 

Then he began to back away, very slowly, steps just a little unsteady. Colette hesitated, then just as he turned away, spoke up. “Wait. Please, it’s okay.”

Was it? She felt deep down that it was, even though she knew not why she might feel such a thing.

He stopped and looked back at her over his shoulder, wings partially obscuring his face. “Why?”

“You’re…” She looked at him quietly. “You’re hurt; besides that, it’s cold, and you’ve no shirt on your back. Come with me; you can warm yourself at my hearth.”

He turned to face her again and shivered, shifting from foot to foot. “I shouldn’t.”

“Why not?”

“I’m not…” He shook his head. “I’m not human. I’m a… I’m a creature, it’s not…” He could hardly seem to grasp words. “I don’t belong… I don’t belong in your home or anyone else’s.”

Colette felt her heart twist in sympathy; whoever this man was, he clearly didn’t feel he deserved the comfort and aid she offered. Gathering her courage, she stepped forward - slowly, so as not to startle him. He watched her silently, alert and shoulders hunched; when she touched his arm, he flinched at her hand against his skin, but he didn’t pull away.

“Please. I don’t want you to wander in the night like this,” Colette said softly. She could see several bleeding wounds, dark in the dim moonlight, and could tell from the way he carried himself that he was in pain. Suddenly, the most important thing in the world was convincing this poor soul to come with her so she could help him.

He looked into her eyes, trapping her beneath a blue gaze. Then he glanced down at her hand, still on his arm, and back at her face. “If… if you’re certain…” 

“I am.” She gave him a warm smile, letting her hand fall from his arm and carefully starting to make her way down the hill. She glanced backward, noticing him still standing there at the top. “Come; it isn’t all that difficult. Do you need help?”

He shook his head, picking his way through the grass and walking down the hill. He nearly tripped a few times, and her instincts made her want to help him - but she didn’t, and the both of them made it to the bottom without much trouble.

She led him to the house, opening the door and walking inside, leaving it open for him. He stopped at the threshold, wings tucked as close to his body as he could bring them. 

“It’s alright,” Colette said gently, switching on a lamp so that the room was lit by more than firelight. “You can come in.” 

He didn’t seem to want to, but he entered the house regardless, wings brushing up against the doorjamb. Then he stood still in the centre of the room, head down, refusing to make eye contact, as though he were ashamed to simply be here.

Colette frowned, wishing she knew how to soothe him. She made her way to the kitchen area, putting a kettle on to boil before walking back toward him. He didn’t look up until she stopped right in front of him. 

She smiled again. “I’m Colette. Colette Mullen. What’s your name?” 

He opened his mouth to speak, but no sound emerged except a broken breath, and he let his head fall again, chin against his chest. “Cain.” It was a whisper, a nearly humiliated one, and Colette felt part of her heart crack though she knew not why - why it hurt or why he seemed so ashamed.

“Well… hello, Cain,” Colette said, tilting her head slightly. “Why don’t you find somewhere to sit? While the tea brews, I’ll patch you up a little.”

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, looking around the room, and she left briefly to find the herbs, salves, and bandages she used for injuries and illnesses. She also took one of her father’s old shirts - she had kept some of his clothing, unable to part with it after his death - along with her. When she came back, Cain had settled into the armchair beside the fire; he was half-asleep, hair falling across his face, his wings - such beautiful wings - spread out behind him like a ship’s sails. A few wounds were scattered across his torso and arms; they looked like the injuries of a man who had been dragged across stony ground, and she wondered what had happened.

She set her supplies down, deciding to let him rest until after the tea had come to a boil, so when she had to apply the salves, he could at least have something comforting to drink. She would add a small amount of whiskey to hopefully help with the pain.

As she tended to the tea, her mind began to whir and wander like the inner workings of a clock. This man had _wings_ ; how was that possible? Surely she had some books she could consult that might give her some sort of idea, though nothing was coming to mind. She had heard legends of men and women with wings - perhaps one of them hadn’t been quite as mythical as they had been made out to be.

Finally, the tea had come to a boil. She took a tray, placing two teacups on it and pouring tea into both. She only filled one of them 3/4ths of the way, taking a bottle of whiskey from the cupboard to use for the last 1/4th.

Then she took the tray, holding it carefully, and walked back to where the strange, wondrous man still rested, heart aflutter.


End file.
